Free Blood on the Sun (CSI: NY) by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page A

convinced the small white dot was animal material, almost certainly from a dead caterpillar very much like the one he had found on the linden leaf in Jacob Vorhees’ room.
     
    Back in his office, Mac checked his watch. He had a busy morning ahead. He sat back in his office chair and looked down at the two items on his desk, the fragment of leaf and a credit card printout, items related to the murder of the Vorhees family.
    When Danny came through the door holding a folder and a book, Mac didn’t look at his hand or ask him any questions about his session with Sheila Hellyer. Instead he asked, “What do we know about Kyle Shelton?”
    Danny opened the folder and scanned the report. He already knew what was in it.
    “Age twenty-five, degree from City University of New York, in philosophy. Did three years in the marines, enlisted. Served on the Iraq-Syria border. Purple heart. Punctured spleen from a mine. Got out, took a job delivering flowers. Had a fight in a bar on the Lower East Side, The Red Lamp Lounge. Some guy, a little drunk maybe, got in Shelton’s face about Middle East policy. Shelton shut him up by breaking the guy’s jaw with one punch. Shelton spent three months at Riker’s and then got a hearing and was given probation. And last, but maybe not least, our fleeing Beast wrote a book, War and Rationalization. Published by a respectable small press. Got a short favorable review in the Times on a Tuesday. The book didn’t sell, only two thousand copies.”
    Danny handed Mac a copy of the thin book. Mac opened it to the inside back flap and saw the face of a serious young man looking back over his shoulder at the camera.
    Early that morning, before he went to the woods just before the sun rose, Mac, warrant in hand, had gone to Shelton’s studio apartment in a gray, uninviting prewar stone building. He had found lots of Shelton’s prints. He felt certain they matched the bloody ones at the Vorhees house.
    Shelton’s room was clean, dominated by a gleaming all-purpose exercise machine. One solid dark wood bookcase was filled with books, mostly about philosophy and psychology: Jung, Freud, Nietzsche, Sartre, some names Mac didn’t recognize. The bottom shelf was filled with CDs. Shelton’s taste, like Mac’s, ran to the Baroque: Bach, Vivaldi, Hayden, Mozart. There was a slightly faded futon against the wall across from two windows, which had recently been cleaned. A heavy dark wood chest with six drawers rested against the wall. A round well-polished wooden table with two metal folding chairs stood next to the refrigerator and built-in pantry. A small desk with a chair stood against the last wall. A computer, slightly past its prime, sat on the desk. Mac checked the computer files and e-mail.
    The Beast was a puzzle. He received and sent e-mails about the need for a massive movement to send troops or mercenaries into lawless African countries. He was ready to go fully armed and ready to kill if a mercenary army could be organized. He also received and sent e-mails about children starving and dying in third world countries, and abuse of children in all countries. Some of the e-mails were clearly written in a rage. In all of his e-mails, Shelton quoted philosophers, novelists, poets and psychiatrists.
    There had been no copy of Kyle Shelton’s own book in his apartment.
    “So,” said Mac. “Shelton is smart.”
    “Looks that way,” said Danny.
    Mac looked at the credit card printout on his desk and said, “If he’s so smart, why did he use his Visa card for gas a few hours ago in New Jersey?”
    “No cash?” Danny guessed.
    “He could have gotten cash from an ATM in Manhattan,” said Mac.
    “He wants us to know he was in New Jersey,” said Danny. “He wants us to think he’s running west or north. Or he could also be doubling back and heading south.”
    Mac nodded his agreement, his eyes on the credit card statement.
    “My guess is that he’s on the way back here,” said Mac. “Probably